


Just Crash.

by hydrogendisco



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrogendisco/pseuds/hydrogendisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the song Crash by You Me At Six. Gerard finds out Mikey is still cutting, don't read if you get triggered easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Crash.

I hear him before I see him. I was never going to miss him though, I’ve been sat waiting for him to get back since I woke up. It’s not like I have anything else to do these days anyway. My heart flutters like butterfly wings as I hear the front door slam, and my palms already begin to sweat profusely. I’ve stopped thinking about how wrong it is to get excited everytime I sense my brother is near me, because it only makes me feel worse, and I don’t need that. I’ve pretty much just recovered.  
I bolt to the door of my room and listen intently for the footsteps which I know I will hear. I pray and pray that he’s okay today, mainly because I don’t know how much I can pretend that it’s easy to get better for him. It’s not. I shouldn’t have to lie to him and tell him it is. He knows anyway, it’s not like a secret that we share. I don’t hear any movement, so I move myself silently into the hallway and call out;

‘Mikey?’ I shout out and you can hear the ‘I missed you’ smile in my voice. There’s no reply, but as I walk towards the kitchen I spy his school bag tossed next to the door. The kitchen is devoid of any presence, but the draw nearest the oven is open. My stomach lurches violently as I process the information. I know what we keep in that draw. 

I run up the flight of stairs towards the top floor, eyes wide, heart racing. I have to stop him. I scrape my hair out of my face before crashing into the unlocked bathroom. I’m shocked to find that it’s also empty, but I see that the roll of toilet paper is absent and it only confirms my biggest fear. 

I spin on my heels and shout my brother’s name again before rushing into his room. The door is shut but not locked, much to my surprise. I fix my eyes on him just as the blade swipes across his fragile wrist and I cry out. He looks up, dropping the blood stained weapon onto his jeans, where it falls to the floor gracefully. I stare at the fresh dots of blood oozing from beneath the pale skin that I love so much, memorizing the position of each new wound in my brain. 

Mikey cries out then, not a word, but just a sound which cuts through all my thoughts. It’s the kind of noise which mixes all of the emotions which should never be felt, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up like crazy. I walk over to him, plucking off a load of tissue from the toilet roll and folding it neatly in my shaking fingers. I sit down next to him in silence and gently take his wrist. I feel his nerves under my fingers, each one radiating in tremors throughout his entire body. 

I press the tissue lightly over the newest cuts and risk taking my eyes off of the floor. I meet his watery eyes, which emit nothing but defeat and disappointment to me and it hurts me more than seeing the unnaturally red blood does. I try and smile, but I know he can see it’s fake. He lets a silent tear run down his pink cheek, then rests his head on my shoulder. I can feel his body racked with sobs that just need to come out, and they do then. Distorted cries of horror and pain fill the room as well as making my head spin. 

I adjust myself so that I can wrap both arms around him without the risk of nudging the cuts again. I hold him tightly, trying to push him back together when I know he’s too broken to fix. It hurts me so much to know of his torturous ache which eats away at his insides. I used to think I could make him better, but right now I’m not so sure. 

I don’t know how long we sit, his head pressed against my shoulder, my arms linking around his bony frame, but it’s comforting. Sometimes I’ll try and say something, but give up as he just wails at me and clenches his fist on my lap. Essentially, he’s crashed. He’s been on the breaking point for a while, what with his anxiety over our illegal relationship, but I never knew that when he did breakdown it would be this bad. 

He passes out after a while, his miserable sobbing turning into shaky breathing. I can only imagine the horrors that his brain will think up in his slumber, making even the most restful time a traumatic event. I place him down carefully on his bed, trying to avoid looking at the wine-red tissue on his right wrist. I clean up everything then, gliding around his room with silent ease to make everything perfect. I wash the blade with great difficulty, shuddering every time the slick metal touched my unsteady hands, put plasters all up his wrist (again with great difficulty) and disposed of anything which might remind him of everything. 

I turn the mirror to face the wall, because I know how much he hates to wake up and see the same weak body staring back at him. I shove all of the unfinished homework from various pointless subjects into a drawer as well. After I’m done, I take a seat back on the bed, trying not to move the springs of the mattress too much in case I wake him. I stare at him, enjoying the steady rhythm of his breathing and the way his eyelids flicker at every sound. I love him when he looks like this, so peaceful and at ease. It reminds me of the days where we’d stay up late just to read comics and play games together, it reminds me of the Mikey I fell in love with. Now fun consists of lying in silence together, our fingers tracing each other’s bodies lacily and messy kisses in the bathroom when no one is around. I don’t know which life I prefer anymore, but I just want things to improve. I want to fix him. 

 

Epilogue

 

It’s been exactly five months today since I found my brother like that and life couldn’t be worse right now, I think to myself as I drag my body out of bed. It feels heavier today, a weight which has never been there before settling in my limbs. Maybe it’s because I have to accept it again, unable to ignore the fact that he’s gone. It hurts to even think of the fact that he’s not lying in bed right now, head buried into the pillow, desperately trying to avoid getting up but knowing that it’ll happen eventually.

He’s gone, and I’m having to try and live with that fact. But then how can I live with the fact that my brother, my best friend and my boyfriend took his own life only a week after I found him a dishevelled mess? How am I supposed to carry on when there’s nothing to carry on for? It’s just pointless now, eeking out this pathetic life which I’m only living out of guilt. 

I haven’t told anyone of course, about how we liked to kiss messily when no one could see us. Or about how I used to climb into his bed on Sunday mornings when we were home alone and trace patterns onto his bare chest with my hands fingers. He wouldn’t want me to, too afraid of what people would think even now. 

 

*

 

I’m standing in front of his meaningless headstone, words carved in that are there because they need to be, not because they mean something. His full name is there, each letter cut in at an angle which doesn’t look right, and that annoys me. Everyone knows that he hated his full name, so why mock him of that now? At least respect his decisions when you’re standing over his dead body. 

I feel my pulse begin to rise, my stomach begin to churn, those feelings which I always get when I’m nervous or excited. I don’t know what I’m nervous for though, it’s not like I have to be something I’m not here, alone with just me and him, like it used to be. 

I sit down with my back leaning against the cool marble stone, staring at the tree opposite me. I think back to all of the times we laughed, all of the times I caught him grinning at me when he shouldn’t be, all the times we got called fags by drunken men as we walked down a back alley hand in hand, all the times he had to push his glasses back up his nose because the frames were slightly too big and he was too awkward to ask for them to be changed. 

I only notice I’m crying when I can’t focus on the large oak tree before me. Of course I’m crying though, why shouldn’t I? I let the tears flow freely, not wiping them off course before they hit the disappointing destination of my stomach. 

I look down at the ground beside me, where my fingers are sitting lifelessly. I start to draw patterns then, tracing them into the grass like I would’ve done on a Sunday morning if he were still here. I hope he can feel it, I hope his pulse is quickening like it always used to when I performed this ritual. I know I’m stupid, sat there sobbing like a baby, tracing infinity symbols into the dirt hoping that somehow it’ll bring him back.

It won’t.

He crashed that night, and it was too fatal for even a great mechanic like me to fix.


End file.
